All Was Golden in the Sky
by dandelionsandroses
Summary: When Katniss was caught stealing a pair of shoes for her sister from Mellark's Department Store in 1901, she never expected that instead of being arrested, the owner, Peeta, would take her in. But now she's living under his roof, being pampered with beautiful clothes and wondrous food. And perhaps she has a shot at something more. Historical AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything in the Hunger Games universe. All characters, names, and places belong to their respective owners.**

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><p>The stove was broken again. Third time this week, not that I'd expect less at this point. The little home I'd made for my family was really nothing more than a side room in a tenement building, besides. That's what the Seam, a measly neighborhood for factory works, seated along the ridge of Manhattan, was mainly full of. There was the occasional rickety brownstone that held a shift manager, but for the most part it was just workers crammed together like sardines.<p>

The Seam is usually crawling with factory workers heading out to the morning shift at this hour. Men and women with hunched shoulders, swollen knuckles, many who have long since stopped trying to scrub the dust out of their broken nails, the lines of their sunken faces. But today the black cinder streets are empty. Shutters on the squat gray houses are closed. Christmas was the one of the few rare holidays we got, most spent every second with their relations.

There were no presents under the tree. No peppermint sticks or an orange, just once, like there had been when my father was alive. But Prim wouldn't be disappointed, not this year at least. She had learned not to expect much.

It had been just the two of us for the past couple of years. Well, us and the ball of fur that is lying beside her on the bed, guarding her, the world's ugliest cat. Mashed-in nose, half of one ear missing, eyes the color of rotting squash. Prim named him Buttercup, insisting that his muddy yellow coat matched the bright flower. He hates me. Or at least distrusts me. Even though it was years ago, I think he still remembers how I tried to drown him in a bucket when Prim brought him home. Scrawny kitten, belly swollen with worms, crawling with fleas. The last thing I needed was another mouth to feed. But Prim begged so hard, cried even, I had to let him stay. It turned out okay. My mother got rid of the vermin and he's a born mouser. Even catches the occasional rat. Sometimes, when I get the rare piece of meat, I feed Buttercup the entrails. He has stopped hissing at me.

Entrails. No hissing. This is the closest we will ever come to love.

It's well into the morning by the time Prim wakes. There was once a time when we would both leap to awake on Christmas morning, greedily anxious for the treats our father had brought us. But now a morning full of sleep is more than enough to sate us.

It had been just the two of us for a while. My father had passed before my twelfth birthday, a work accident. Our Mama didn't do much else after he passed, it got better, eventually, but pneumonia took her soon enough.

I had kept Prim in school, she wanted to be a teacher day. Sweet, innocent Prim. She had no business in the factories, actually had a shot at more than this. The least I could do was keep her in class, even if most children were in the shops by her age.

Breakfast is dull, nothing more than the usual mash. I tried to save for a bit of sugar and cinnamon, like I usually do around this time, but Prim needed a new school smock.

We both dress quickly. Prim in her faded black dress, me in the shortened blue thing that was once my mama's. It's my best dress, the one I used to reserve for church and birthdays, but since I'd pawned my mother dress I'd started wearing it to the factory and since, there was no salvaging it from the dark fumes and dust that had accumulated.

"Katniss," Prim says, her voice wavering as she slips into her boots, "I can stick my toe through it this time."

I sighed. It would be a while before I could afford new boots, or even a patch. Wordlessly, I pull some worn newspaper from the stack on the shelf, carefully stuffing her shoes. I'd give her my own if she'd fit them.

Money had been tight these past few months. The landlord had raised the rents, the factory had been cutting down on my hours. I'd pawned practically everything of value.

"You don't have to feel guilty, Katniss," she places her hand on mine, so patient, so knowing, "many have it worse. I'm thankful."

When did my little sister become so grown up?

But I can't help it. I want to give her something, so I offer the only thing I can, "I know, Prim. Perhaps we could stop by Mellark's Department Store?"

"Really," she lights up, "Maybe we could go see the Christmas display! Becca's mother brought her the other day, she said they have twenty velvet dresses and bustles so wide you could barely stand in them."

She means the ones they display in the windows. Beautiful dresses on mannequins, decorated with velvet polar bears or crystal 'snow' falling from above. A gimmick to bring people inside. They're even grander on Christmas and New Year's Day. When we're in the square, Prim always drags me over to admire them, although we'd never be able to afford one. There's little enough beauty in our life, though, so I can hardly deny her this.

"Of course, Prim," I say, with a smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes.

Her eyes widen in wonder and she swings around to pull me in a hug, "Oh, Katniss! Thank you!" she says with sheer delight. And for a moment I feel a pang of guilt, what kind of sister was I if she got so excited over just being able to look at pretty things?

It takes us a while to get to Fifth Avenue. More than usual, really. In these parts of the city, where days off aren't such rare occasions, where fathers bring their kids to shop for trinkets and candies, the streets are littered with shiny faces and best dresses.

It's beautiful, I have to admit it. The Avenue is always bustling with excitement, it's almost a treat to be surrounded by such pretty things. But this isn't my part of town. I know better. But Prim always wants to stop and look at the department store windows.

Mellark's is a luxury shop along Fifth Avenue. Although, shop is certainly not the right word for it. Department Stores they call them these days, the type of place that has a whole floor just for ladies' hats. Bridget, the girl across from us in the Seam, claims that they had them back in London for ten years.

The department store is flocked. It's ten floors of perfectly manicured light brick, even the name, _Mellark's _seems to beam across the floor in those bright, uniform gold letters. We stand out just a little, but there are enough people here today that none of the store clerks shoo us away.

This year, instead of polar bears or crystal snow, the display is a little more natural. There's a girl, a beautifully painted mannequin with a simple braid and a gorgeous dark green gown that flows at least ten feet. She's standing in what must be a fairytale wonderland. There's a beautiful 'forest' of silk scarves and paste jewels, an enchanted cottage detailed with gold. It's one of the more tasteful displays, for sure, and I can't help but wonder if _he _designed it.

Prim spends a great time admiring the displays, an antagonizing time, really. We have to circle the whole building- twice- before she's satisfied.

The inside of Mellark's is just as fascinating to Prim at the displays. Racks of bright pre-made dresses, rows upon rows of ribbons, she even spends time admiring the ties. There's something about the endlessness of it that's comforting, if not the slightest bit revolting. My friend from the factory, Gale, says that's it's despicable. For there to be so much splendor when so many of us are starving. But that doesn't make it any less enchanting. In Ladies' Wear there is a whole room, the size of our entire building, just for sleeve laces. And with all the drudgery in my life, I can't help but marvel just the slightest bit.

And that's when I see them.

They're displayed callously in the open. Black leather boots, exactly Prim's size. Nothing fancy, but nothing I could ever afford. They're just in my reach, tempting me. I can't help but wonder if I just reached out- slipped them in my bag. Nobody would even notice, and it wouldn't be like stealing from the local shoemaker. It would barely make a dent in the department store's profits. With the flurry of people bustling through the store? Surely, I wouldn't be caught.

So I reach out and touch them, just touch them. I wait for a moment, just to see if a clerk will spot me, scream for the seam girl to get away from her wares. But nobody does.

I glance over to my left. Prim's busily occupied on the other side of the room, admiring the plait ribbons they have for sale. She'd never even half to know. I'd tell her I found an old ring of our mother's, or that I picked up a new shift at the factory. Prim wouldn't suspect otherwise. And oh, to see the look on my sister's face! How proud would she be? To wear a brand new pair of bright patent leather shoes?

I don't even think about it when I do it. I just reach out and grab them, shoving a shoe into each of my pockets.

Nobody even gives me a second glance.

And oh, there is nothing that can quite describe the relief I feel wash over me as I go over to Prim, nobody the wiser to the stolen merchandise hiding in my skirts. It's wrong, I know it. But what was I going to do?

Ideally I would like to leave as soon as possible, the contraband is practically burning through my pockets. And I'm anxious, too, but what would I tell Prim? So I let her wander around a bit, indulge in her fantasies, let her tell me what she's going to buy, 'when she's a teacher'.

And then I hear it.

"It's her! The seam brat right there! Thief, thief!" the frantic urges of a store clerk bellow through the room, and at first, I try to make an exit, pulling on Prim's sleeve, trying to get out of there as soon as possible.

But somebody, the pudgy bald security guard, stops me, "Hey there, missy, where do you think you're going?" he snarls.

"I didn't do anything!" I cry, pulling my hands away from him.

He snarls, "Empty your pockets, girl." Everybody's starting.

"I didn't do anything wrong," I protest, trying once again to get him off me.

I can't breathe. Can't even look at Prim.

And I must wait too long, because he grabs at my pockets, a cruel smile on his face as he pulls out two new patent leather boots with _Mellark's _stamped on the soles, "Just like I thought." He tries to pull my hands back, and my 'fight or flight' reflexes kick in, causing me to shove him slightly.

That lands me face down on the ground, his sweaty elbows digging into my back. And I can hear

"Wait, wait! Dear god, don't hurt the girl," a voice stands out among the murmurs of the crowd, an authoritative infection evident in the voice. And suddenly, there's a hand, pulling me up and sitting me against the smooth glass of the counter.

And when I look up, I startle slightly, never able to meet his compassionate glance. Because I know that blonde hair, I know those bright blue eyes.

Peeta Mellark.

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><p><strong>Author's Note: So there it is, guys! A brand new story from your's truly. This is something I've been dabbling with for a while. Hopefully the latter chapters will be longer but I didn't want to give anything away. Please let me know what you think. This is un-betaed, so if you see any mistakes, please let me know. <strong>

**As always, you can follow me on tumblr at starveinsafety. You can also follow my everlark fanfiction gif blog at everlarkfanfictionclub.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the works in the Hunger Games trilogy. All characters, places, and names belong to their respective owners. The first scene was adapted from the Hunger Games - Chapter Two, so no claim on that. I would like to thank the lovely Court, for her speedy and thorough editing of this chapter. Also, shout-out to bottledmichelle, who will be helping with some of the historical details. Make sure to follow her on tumblr.**

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><p><em>Why him?<em> I think, my face burning with pure shame. Then I try to convince myself it doesn't matter. Peeta Mellark and I are not friends. Not even neighbors; far from it, actually. We don't speak. Our only interaction of value happened years ago — _and then there was that once, last fall_ — but he's probably forgotten it all. But I haven't and I know I never will.

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><p>It was during the worst time. My father had been killed in the accident three months earlier in the bitterest January anyone could remember. The numbness of his loss had passed, and the pain would hit me out of nowhere, doubling me over, racking my body with sobs. <em>Where are you?<em> I would cry out in my mind. Where have you gone? _Of course, there was never any answer._

The factory had given us a small amount of money as compensation for his death, enough to cover one month of grieving, after which time my mother would be expected to get a job. Only she didn't. She didn't do anything but sit propped up in a chair, or, more often, huddled under the blankets on her bed, eyes fixed on some point in the distance. Once in a while she'd stir and get up as if moved by some urgent purpose, only to then collapse back into stillness. No amount of pleading from Prim or me seemed to affect her.

I was terrified. I suppose now, looking back that my mother was locked in some dark world of sadness, but at the time, all I knew was that I had lost not only a father, but a mother as well. At eleven years old, with Prim just seven, I took over as head of the family. There was no choice. I bought our food at the market and cooked it as best I could, and tried to keep Prim and myself looking presentable. Because if it had become known that my mother could no longer care for us, the city would have taken us away from her and placed us in the community home, or orphanage, as the others liked to call it. I'd grown up seeing those home kids at school — the sadness, the marks of angry hands on their faces, the hopelessness that curled their shoulders forward. Some of them were even sent away to the farms, siblings split apart. I could never let that happen to Prim.

Sweet, tiny Prim who cried when I cried before she even knew the reason, who brushed and plaited my mother's hair before we left for school, who still polished my father's shaving mirror each night because he'd hated the layer of grit that settled on everything in the Seam. The community home would crush her like a bug. So I kept our predicament a secret.

But the money ran out and we were slowly starving to death. There was no other way to put it.

Starvation's not an uncommon fate in the tenement buildings. That and infection seemed to kill half of us. Who hasn't seen the victims? Older people who can't work. Children from a family with too many to feed. Those injured in the sweatshops, straggling through the streets. And one day, you come upon them sitting motionless against a wall or lying in the hear the wails from a house, and the diggers are called in to retrieve the body. Starvation is never the official cause of death. New York's been painted as the land of promise, the epitome of the American dream. Nobody needs the truth on the records.

On the afternoon of my encounter with Peeta Mellark, the rain was falling in relentless icy sheets. I had been in town trying to trade some threadbare old baby clothes of Prim's in the public market, but there were no takers. Although I had been to the Hob, a dingy illegal market that catered to the Italians, on several occasions with my father, I was too frightened to venture into that rough, gritty place alone. The rain had soaked through my father's hunting jacket, leaving me chilled to the bone. For three days, we'd had nothing but boiled water with some old dried mint leaves I'd found in the back of a cupboard. By the time the market closed, I was shaking so hard that I dropped my bundle of baby clothes in a mud puddle. I didn't pick it up for fear I would keel over and be unable to regain my footings. Besides, no one had wanted those clothes.

I couldn't go home. Because at home was my mother, with her dead eyes and my little sister, with her hollow cheeks and cracked lips. I couldn't walk into that room with the dingy wallpaper and bare cupboards.

I found myself stumbling along a muddy lane behind the shops that serve the wealthiest townspeople, closer to the Park. I remember the outlines of garden beds not yet planted for the spring.

It had crossed my mind that there might be something in the trash bins, and those were fair game. Perhaps a bone at the butcher's, or rotted vegetables at the grocer's, something no one but my family was desperate enough to eat. Unfortunately, the bins had just been emptied.

But then I passed the Mellarks' home. It was a lush brownstone; tall, even from the back. The alley on this side was swept clean, immaculate, really. And I could smell it — fresh bread baking in the kitchen's ovens. The ovens were in the back, and I could almost feel the heat. I stood mesmerized by the warmth and the luscious scent until the rain interfered, running its icy fingers down my back, forcing me back to life.

And that's when I noticed him. That same blonde hair, those blue eyes. He was a few years older, and there was an angry red mark on his face — I wondered if somebody had hit him. I had seen similar marks on the kid in the community home. Rough, angry purple marks along their faces. He was finely dressed, for sure. Nice grey suit, burgundy scarf with an embroidered dandelion along the silk. Odd choice of flower for such a fine thing. I imagined a (his?) sweetheart had done it.

He was standing there on the back stoop, just looking at me. "Wait—" he said, "stay here."

My first instinct was to run, to flee, but I didn't have the strength in me.

When he finally came out, seemingly hours later, two slightly burned loaves were under his arm, wrapped in that same dandelion-embroidered scarf, "They already set the table with the fresh ones, I'm sorry. Here," he said, attempting to approach me.

I moved back, startled.

He sighed slightly. Backing up, one hand in the air, as if to show me he meant no harm, he tossed me the loaves.

I stared at the loaves in disbelief. They were fine, perfect really, except for the burned areas. Did he mean for me to have them? He must have. Because there they were at my feet. Before anyone could witness what had happened, I shoved the loaves up under my shirt, wrapped the hunting jacket tightly about me, and walked swiftly away. The heat of the bread burned into my skin, but I clutched the loaves tighter, clinging to life.

I could hear the voices. A woman, his mother perhaps, shrieked at him to 'get away from that garbage, the guests are inquiring your whereabouts. I had Jessa look for you, God knows she's worthless, now get back inside and put on a smile.' And there was a crack, like the slap of a hand. I glanced back for a moment and looked at the boy. I wondered for a moment if she had been the one to hit him, and why he didn't stand up to her. He was surely bigger? But I was scared she'd chase me, make me return the bread. So I just ran.

By the time I reached home, the loaves had cooled somewhat, but the insides were still warm. When I dropped them on the table, Prim's hands reached to tear off a chunk, but I made her sit, forced my mother to join us at the table, and poured us all warm tea. I scraped off the black stuff and sliced the bread. We ate an entire loaf, slice by slice. It was good, hearty bread, filled with raisins and nuts.

I wondered why he would have done it. Starving Seam girls were a dime a dozen. He didn't even know me. Still, just throwing me the bread was an enormous kindness; it was salvation in the purest form.

We ate slices of bread for breakfast, and headed to school. It was as if spring had come overnight. Warm sweet air. Fluffy clouds. It was New York though. There were no bright blue skies, only grey, muddy ones.

I noticed him around after that. He would come to the Seam, baskets of fresh bread in hand, and distribute them to the locals. I wouldn't take any of the loaves, though. I'd already taken so much from him. Who was I to steal from another starving family?

_And then there was that day last fall..._

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><p>My thoughts are broken by the security guard's gruff voice. "This missy was stealing shoes. Tried to make an exit when we went after her, shoved me, too." He glances to the crowd.<p>

"I'll make a call to the Police Department," he adds.

"I'm no thief." My voice is raspy as I cry in protest, moving my knees to my chest in defense. My loose hair falls over my face, shielding me from the embarrassment.

"No, no. Don't do that," Peeta says dismissively. "I'm afraid there's been a misunderstanding. Isn't that right, _Katniss_?"

He says my name with a question, like he's not quite sure of himself. _But still, he knows my name?_ Surely he'd forgotten? While he had played such a significant role in my life, I was nothing more than a blimp in his.

I'm not sure why he's protecting me. Saving me, really. _For the second time._ But I nod when the security guard looks at me with his cold, questioning stare.

"A misunderstanding, sir? She had the shoes tucked in her pockets. She ran when we put the spot on her."

I cringe, unable to meet Peeta's eyes. He had been so generous to me, to everybody. And here I was, stealing from him? I can hear Prim whimper in the background, scared. I wonder what she thinks of me now, to know her own sister is a thief.

Peeta gives a smile to the guard. "Oh, she's just a bit skittish, I suppose." He looks at the man's name tag. "Albert, why don't you let me handle this one?"

_Albert _gives a smile, almost like he's proud of being called by name.

Peeta Mellark looks up at me, his fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from my face. "Are you alright? I hope my men didn't hurt you."

I cross my forehead in confusion. _His men hurting me? _That's what he's inquiring about, even with my theft so blatantly obvious?

I shake my head. "I'm fine."

He holds my arm, helping me up. The crowd has mostly dispersed now; there are only a few onlookers. "James!" Peeta yells, motioning for one of his workers, "Why don't you take this girl up to my office," he glances down at Prim, " and the sister too. Leave the younger one with Miss Rachel."

Internally, I panic. Surely this is just a more diplomatic way to arrest me. Didn't want to make a scene, I suppose. But James', a stocky man who looks to be in his forties, hand is firmly pressed against mine and there's nowhere to go.

The man wordlessly leads the two of us up six flights of what must be the back stairs. I'm to ashamed to find it in myself to look at Prim to make sure she's okay.

When we're finally on the seventh floor, James takes me into what must be Peeta's office. It is a very fine room, tasteful too. Mahogany walls, Tiffany lamps, like the ones in the factory's main office, bits and pieces of velvet draped here and there. There's a reception area too, with a secretary in a sleek black gown.

James seats Prim at the pretty little parlor chair across from the secretary. "Miss Rachel." James' voice is kind and warm, almost like my father's. "Why don't you keep the girl here occupied. I think there's a box of sweets in the back."

"Why don't you come in here for a second?" he says, motioning me to open the stained glass door along the opposite wall. The one that surely leads to the room where I will wait for the police.

I look back at Prim, not wanting to separate from her. Oh, what had I done? There would be nobody to care for her when I am locked up. And after I was released, there would be no chance of a decent job.

But I don't have a choice, and the last thing I want to do is make a scene in front of my sister, so I comply, closing the door behind me.

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><p>The wait seems longer than it probably is. Coupled with my anxiety and the utter boredom, it feels like hours before somebody comes to collect me.<p>

But this time, it isn't a police officer, or even a worker. It's him. I can tell the moment he enters the room. I'm sitting in the chair closest to the door. It's an uncomfortable leather thing, a little too high for me, and I find myself swinging my legs against the back of the chair, thankful for the dull pain that hits my legs as I go back and forth.

"I apologize for the wait. I had to deal with some matters of concern," he says as he enters the room. His voice is not threatening, even now we're in private.

I look up at him for the first time, my eyes meeting his. "What will happen to my sister?" I croak.

He gives me a sad look. "That's a matter we can discuss in a moment."

"I didn't steal those things," I insist, hearing the insincerity in my own voice. I'm not even trying this time.

He stares at me for a minute, then sighs. "I don't need you to lie to me, Katniss. It's alright, I promise." He pulls the overbearing green desk chair out of its corner and moves it so that it is directly across from me.

"Why don't we talk for a moment, how about that?" he raises an eyebrow, sitting down.

"Talk about what?"

"Why don't we start with why you stole those shoes?" He opens one of the drawers from his desk and hands me a small, shiny object. It's a candy, a wrapped caramel from France.

I look at it hesitantly and wonder what the rich, golden candy would taste like on my tongue, before deciding to save it for Prim.

"I didn't do anything," I insist pathetically, my voice cracking this time.

He reaches across, placing his hand on mine in a reassuring, almost fatherly manner. I reproach a little. I'm not used to strangers touching me.

"I assure you, everything you say in this room is 'off the record'. I won't hold it against you. Just tell the truth and you won't get in trouble, alright?" His eyes are questioning, but still soft.

For some reason, whether it be stupidity or an innate trust, I tell him. "I didn't mean to steal them. It's just — they were so close. And Prim's shoes had just busted. She wants to be a teacher, you know? I couldn't send her to school with busted shoes."

He nods, as if he understands. "I'm sure you love your sister very much."

I nod. I do love Prim,_ more than anything_. "Are you going to call the police?"

"No," he firmly says. And for a moment, relief washes over my body. "I'm not. It is Christmas, after all. I think we can make a deal, agreed?"

I flood with panic. "A deal?" I question, the hesitation evident in my voice.

"Yes, a deal." He nods at me. "I propose a deal."

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><p><strong>Author's Note: Thank you for all the support! I'm glad everybody seems to be enjoying this fic, and I look forward to working on new material. Please let me know what you thought in the reviews!<strong>

**As always, you can follow me on tumblr at starveinsafety and everlarkfanfictionclub. **


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything in the Hunger Games universe. All characters, places, and names belong to their respective owners. Thanks again to Court for being my lovely beta. If you want to see the outfits worn in this chapter, check out my tumblr starveinsafety under the tag 'all was golden in the sky'.**

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><p>"What do you mean?" I narrow my eyes at him.<p>

"The sentence for petty theft is six months, right?" He glances downward.

I nod. Six months. How would Prim have survived?

"It's more of an invitation than anything else. You would certainly be free to go and come at your leisure. In exchange for your freedom — for the duration of your sentence, that is— I would request the two of you come live with me, stay in my city home. And at the end of those six months," he grins, "everything would be repaid."

"Stay?" I question the implications, pinching my eyebrows. Would I be working in his household? There would be no pay, of course, and I'd have to quit my job at the factory. Who knew when I would be able to get a new position? Times were tough and it was hard to get a stop on the floor, especially for a woman of my age— too old to take a child's position, too young to be given any responsibility.

"Yes," he says, "_stay_. Stay with me, in my home. You would be obliged to nothing, we can work out an arrangement, I suppose. You would be in need for nothing, and if you remain in my household, this entire misfortune could be forgotten."

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><p>I am silent as we walk through the office halls of the department store.<p>

The streets facing the city must be swamped, because Peeta leads us through an exit along the Park. Prim's happy as can be, though she doesn't quite understand the situation. The corner of her mouth is sticky with chocolate, and she has a skip in her step as we cross into the side of the park. It is probably inappropriate, especially around Peeta, but I cannot find it in my heart to chastise her.

"Here," Peeta says as we come to the side of a closed carriage. The body is black, with large curtained windows on both sides. It is far nicer than the buggies that come into the Seam; even in this light you can see the quality—the sleek lines and navy blue detailing. Everything is polished too. The bright silver wheels seem to shine above the blackened, salted snow that covers New York.

One of Peeta's men opens the doors for us and helps Prim and me into the carriage, as if we were proper ladies.

"Step right up, miss." The man is wearing a coal black suit with a crisp, collared white shirt. A tan top hat in the latest style adorns his head, and brass buttons lining his jacket. This driver is better dressed than any man in the Seam, even the shift guard at the factory.

I'm a little wobbly once I take a step inside the carriage, quickly sitting myself and Prim on the side opposite to Peeta. The inside is just as fine as the outside. Puckered dark blue velvet lines the entirety of it. Prim's certainly impressed; I can see from the way her eyes light up as she notices the mahogany panelling. Neither of us have ever been in anything so nice. In fact, I'd only been in a carriage once before, and it was dingy cab—nothing like this. In the Seam, we had to walk everywhere we needed to go.

Immediately, I feel out of place. I eye Peeta sitting across from me, his fine suit blending perfectly with the environment. And there is the two of us in our worn, ratty clothes. Both of us stick out like sore thumbs. At least Prim still has that natural, childlike beauty. I lost that years ago. The reflection from the paned window shows only the tired sorrow of twelve-hour shifts. I don't belong here, I think.

As we pass West 57th Street, Prim speaks up.

"Katniss didn't _steal_ those things," she says, her timid voice breaking through the silence. She's naive. Of course it is obvious to anybody that I stole those things. But Prim has always had the highest opinion of me. I've been father and mother and sister for far too long.

Immediately, I turn away. This was not a conversation I wished to have.

"Of course not, dear," Peeta says, placing a reassuring hand on hers.

His reassurance seems to sate her, as if his word is golden. Because why else would Peeta tell her that unless it was the truth?

I make a mental note to thank him for saving my sister's opinion of me. Yet another _unexplainable kindness_ on my behalf. Or perhaps he was only saving himself from impolite conversation.

"I like your carriage," she says giddily, changing topics.

"Thank you," Peeta says, giving her a tight smile.

"It's very pretty," she babbles. "But why don't you drive your motor-car. You do have one, don't you? My teacher, Mr. Nichols, says all the rich men have them these days."

"Prim," I chide, turning red with embarrassment. It was an inappropriate question. "That's rude," I tell her. It was better she learns her place now rather than later.

"No, no," Peeta lights up, "It's fine. Yes, I do have a motor-car, I've gained a few of them over recent years. I keep them in the country though. Far too difficult to manage the city streets in a timely matter. Although perhaps one day, if you're ever to visit my country estate, I could give you a ride."

I frown at him. Who is he to give her such lofty ideas? Motor-car trips? It's cruel to fill her with promises he will never keep.

"If your sister allowed it, of course," he quickly adds.

"Oh, Katniss! Could I?" Prim leaps at the idea, wriggling in her seat.

Luckily, I'm spared the need for an answer as the driver pulls into the Avenue, quickly settling the horses as we reach our destination.

* * *

><p>The house is as grand as one could possibly imagine. The building itself is legendary, though I've only seen it in passing. I remember when they built the place, the talk that spread amongst the Seam. 'Just another Avenue mansion for a robber baron,' Gale had said. They had sprung up over the past years. Ian Fletcher's place, which looked more like a castle than anything else. Astor's House, a few years back. And now the Mellark family had a place, too.<p>

It's imposed itself on the surroundings. The first story is covered in light stone with matching towers that climb up the facade, bright red bricks peeking through. It fills the corner of the block, windows and windows to either of my sides.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Peeta says, pulling me from my thoughts. He stands beside me, looking up at the house, as if he too is amazed by the sheer extravagance. "I often find myself admiring the place, perhaps more so than my store."

The purchase itself was subsidized by investments and railroad money. The first residential home in the world to have an elevator, or so they said. It had been common gossip amongst the factory workers. With little to live for, the women in my shift slot had the tendency to chit-chat about whatever marvelous home or scandalous affair of the rich was passing around.

"Does it really have an elevator?" I ask, my curiosity getting the better of me. I had never seen anything so grand in my life. "On the inside?"

He nods, "And there is a contraption of ducts, too. Really marvelous things. They pump cool air and heat into the house. Very modern, something I borrowed from an uncle of mine. But alas, it takes up a whole room in the lower building and is very finicky to run. I imagine that one day every home in America will have a system like this."

I laugh a little, imagining a future where heat and air just ran through homes like magic. It's probably another fad, like motor-cars, a novelty for the rich. There's no way that it will ever become affordable.

* * *

><p>I feel as if I have stepped into another room when the three of us enter the foyer. It's cozier than one might expect, filled with sentimental paintings and silk flowers, but still majestic, decked in a flurry of marble and mahogany.<p>

"Your coat, miss," one of the serving boy says. I eye him skeptically. Why on earth would he want my coat? If he took it, I'd never be able to leave, not in this weather, at least. Though maybe that is the point.

Noticing my nerves, Peeta places a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "He's just going to put it in the coat closet," he points towards a door in the foyer, "you'll be free to take it at any time."

"Now, Peeta, why on earth are you home? Dinner will not be on the table for _hours_!" A woman bursts through the door, stopping abruptly as she notices us, "Oh my, what did you get yourself into?"

The woman is comically dressed. She dons an oversized, ruffled bustle big enough to clothe the entire Seam. Hell, the puff of her hair could keep half the city's children warm. For a moment, I wonder if she is Peeta's wife. Surely I would have heard of it in the papers, and she appears to be much older than him, but anything is possible. She can't be simple staff, not with the way she calls him Peeta, the way she so affectionately and openly addresses him, as if she has the right to chide him.

I grit my teeth, irritated at both the thought and the way she eyes me critically, her eyes forming little frowns as she politely composes her face. She's obviously distressed by our disheveled appearance.

"Effie," Peeta says, "these are my guests, Katniss and Primrose Everdeen. Why don't you have one of the girls draw the two of them baths, let them settle down in the Rose Rooms."

I frown a little at his use of the word guest. Prim and I are assuredly far from that.

"I am not a housekeeper," the woman, Miss Effie, protests, eyeing me up and down. "Peeta, may I speak to you in private?" She catches his wrist, hastily pulling him into the side parlor.

We're stranded there for a moment, Prim and I. Effie's scolding him, I can tell from the not so concealed voices and the puffed appearances they both sport after re-emerging from the parlor.

I can hear her as they exit; her high voice carries in the open room, "This is your problem, not mine. You deal with it."

"_Effie_," Peeta replies, "be courteous. Make our guests at home."

"Fine," Effie says, her voice drawn as she places a hand on Prim's back. "Why don't I take you upstairs, sweetheart?" She gives the tiniest smile at my sister, the first genuine look I have seen on the woman's face. "Primrose, was it?"

Prim nods, fascinated by the woman.

"Now, Katniss," Effie adds, not nearly as nice when she directs me, "follow me, and mind you, don't touch anything."

* * *

><p>My head feels perfectly light as I dip my head into the perfumed, scented water that fills the porcelain tub. The woman that Effie passed me off to, a young, timid red-headed maid, an oddly familiar girl, had offered to cater to me in the bath, as if I were a child, but I had quickly declined. I wonder if that was a thing wealthy people did, if they were too incompetent or lazy to bathe themselves.<p>

Nonetheless, I can't deny it is an enjoyable experience. The water is hot, straight from the tap. Back home the shared bath was always a bit musty, a little lukewarm, by the time I ever got in. I had never really experienced a truly fresh bath, much less piping hot water filled with creams and potions that the serving girl promised would make my skin feel soft.

Not that it matters to me. I'm happy enough to remove the grime that seeped into my body from years of life in the Seam.

I've noticed all the girls who work here have clean, fresh skin. Perhaps now that I am part of this arrangement, my skin will be kept clean too. It will be a nice change, for certain.

I think for a moment of my sister, if she too is enjoying one of these drawn baths. Effie had taken her down a hallway. Perhaps they have more than one of these rooms? It sounds awfully expensive, with all the wood paneling and running water. Though if anybody can afford two bathing chambers, it's Peeta.

_This_, I think,_ this I could get used to_.

* * *

><p>I could stay here forever. But eventually the bath grows cool and I force myself from the comfort of the water's embrace. The maid left a pile of clothes on the sink.<p>

There's a pink thing waiting for me. When I unfold it, I notice the cut, smooth with no visible bustle or skirtage. The top is all ruffles and lace that dances along the high-collared neckline, tying only at the waist in a pale pink ribbon. Prim would love this. It's a dressing gown; I've seen them advertised. The type of thing a woman of wealth wears, far from anything I should be in. But seeing as it is the only thing here, I have no choice but to put it on.

The dressing gown sticks a little against my wet skin, and I can't help but wonder where the girl took the dress I came in. Would I ever get it back? It was my best dress, even if it doesn't compare to this.

Crossing the little room, I peek outside of the door, spotting the maid that helped me before. She's sitting in the hallway with a pile of laundry. I imagine she did idle work while she waited for me.

"Miss," she says, setting aside her bin, "let me bring you." The red-haired girl from before she takes my hand into hers, wordlessly leading me into a room with blue toile wallpaper, rugged floors, and a wall of dressers. "Let me take this," she points to the pink dressing gown, "I'm here to get you ready, let me do my job."

I submit, feeling slightly unnerved by my nakedness as I slip out of the dressing gown and into the crisp white underthings that she sets aside for me. I even let her put me in a corset when she promises not to fit it too tight.

When she pulls the dress from the wardrobe, my eyes widen. I'm not the type of girl that is easily impressed by clothes, but even I have to admire the beauty of it. The main body is a bright Christmas red, with little buttons along the top. Over that, there is a cropped red velvet jacket that looks like the ones in the advertisements Prim likes to pore over. And then there is the patterned gold and red overskirt that settles over the dress—no oversized bustle, thank god.

"Are you sure this is for me?" I question the girl. The dress is clearly very expensive, whatever this arrangement is I highly doubt Peeta intended to deck me out in soft pink dressing gowns and rich red dresses, nice as he is.

The girl nods. "Master Mellark set it aside in _particular_ for you."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: The new chapter is up! Let me know what you think in the reviews, it's been over a year since I started publishing fanfiction, crazy, right? <strong>

**Anyways, as always, you can follow me on tumblr at starveinsafety. **


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything in the Hunger Games series. All characters, places, and names go to their respective owners.**

* * *

><p>Fire burns through my cheeks as I think of Peeta selecting the dress. It was also so confusing- his kindness.<em> And what would he get out of it anyways?<em>

"Would you wish to be alone?" the red-head asks me, turning me around so that I face the full length mirror. I can't help but notice that I look nicer than usual. My skin was clean and tinted the slightest bit pink from all of that scrubbing, my hair was smooth and shiny. The dress complimented me too, with the help of the corset I looked like a woman for once in my life.

I nod._ There was something I needed to do._

* * *

><p>I tiptoe down the hallway, making sure to avoid any of the servants. This house is like a labyrinth, an endless maze of corridors, connecting parlors, and staircases. One could easily get lost in this place. In fact, I am not entirely sure that I could find my way back at this point. The whole building is overwhelmingly larger, bigger, and far more complicated, than any tenement building.<p>

But eventually I find the only room on the floor (aside from my own) that has light filtering through the cracks. I knock on the door, not wishing to disturb Peeta or find him in a state of address.

"Come in!" the voice says, unmistakably his. I turn the porcelain door knob, peeking inside. It's a room, not much smaller than the one I've been assigned. Peeta's sitting at a little table along the wall, a tea cart placed beside him.

"Oh, Katniss. What a pleasant surprise." Peeta rises at my presence, motioning for me to join him at the table. "Come, come. I assumed the two of you would need some rest; dinner will not be on the table for another hour, I'm afraid." He pushes a hot cup of tea in my direction.

"That's not why I'm here," I say plainly. "I need to speak with you."

Peeta gives me the slightest smile. "Cream?" he says, offering me some of the thick, ivory drink. I could drink it from the serving dish, I think. We never had the money for cream back home. Sometimes we bought milk when the men came around with the carts, but never cream. It had been years since I had tasted the smooth, buttery liquid. And when I take a sip of my tea, I can almost feel the weight of it on my tongue

"Now, what would you like to discuss with me?" he says,

I eye him. "I need you tell me exactly what this _arrangement _is about. Can't be good for your reputation to let a common thief traipse around your house, much less dine with you. The clothes—it is entirely too much on your part. I can't accept it. So tell me, what do you want from me?"

He gives the slightest of smiles, as if he is in on a secret I know nothing about. "I want nothing _from_ you, Katniss. Only your company."

The implication hits me. _Company. _He wanted my company— a nagging suspicion confirmed. All of a sudden it made sense. The bath, the pretty dress…

I spit my sip of tea out, pushing my cup in his direction and hastily standing up, "I'm not a whore." I tell him, my voice full of indignation. _Stupid, stupid, Katniss. _Most girls would have thought of it the second a man of position invited her to stay with him, but I had ignored the signs. I had put myself in this position. I was not the prettiest girl in the city, nor the most experienced, maybe it was simply a matter of convenience. It wasn't uncommon for city officials to seize the girls that fell into their households. And here I am, with no defence against him.

Peeta pulls himself from his seat, throwing his jacket off in an attempt to get the tea off his coat. I instinctually take a step back. Swearing slightly under his breath, he throws his hands up in a sign of withdrawal.

"I didn't mean _anything _like that, I swear!" he cries in his defense "I would _never _ask anything like that of you, I promise. I just—well, you were right there. And you looked so desperate, so worn down. And you deserve more, you both deserve more. What was I supposed to do? Ignore what was right in front of my eyes, after I have been given so much. Let two young girls go back to that _place_? Besides, it's Christmas and quite frankly, Katniss, I am all alone these days. I just thought it would be nice to have some company in this place. And if I could help you, if I could help _Prim_?"

I burn a little, embarrassed at my assumption. Of course he had no interest in me—what was I thinking? He had seen two measly, half-fed girls and had taken them in with compassion. A motivation I would never think of, because I didn't live in Peeta's world. The world in which he is truly (and genuinely kind toward a girl who can offer him nothing than but her company. Although I suppose that's what Peeta Mellark does, he is nice. Just like that bread so many years ago, he is extending his generosity with no expectation of return. And that is the worst part, because how can you return a favor that comes wrapped in pure intentions?

"I'm sorry," I say, clearing my throat, "I shouldn't have made the assumption."

"No," he says, shaking his head, "I'm sorry. I should have put it out there, up front. You made a logical conclusion. Now," he says, picking up his stained jacket, "the first course should be ready soon and we both need a good, hot meal. Why don't you join me for Christmas dinner, Katniss?"

"Fine," I say, pulling myself from the chair and following him, "Oh, and Peeta?"

"Yes?" He politely opens the doorway, allowing me to exit first.

"I'm sorry about your jacket."

* * *

><p>The little parlor Peeta brings me to is lined with Christmas decorations. Expensive ones, not even the popcorn strings and handmade ornaments that the middle class puts up. The room smells like a forest, ribboned greens covering the mantelpiece and hearth. The room is truly picturesque. Little nutcrackers dressed in pink and gold livery, just like the ones that Prim likes to admire in the store windows. There is even a Christmas tree—several of them, in fact. I have never seen so much preparation for a holiday. In the Seam, people weren't nearly that festive. Didn't have the time, didn't have the money. When I was younger my mother used to line our little apartment with the assortment of decorations she had saved from her old life, but all of those things were quickly sold after my father's death.<p>

"This place," I say to Peeta, my eyes flitting around the room, taking note of everything from the gilded lamps to the imported carpets, "it's beautiful."

He nods, "Yes, I suppose it is." He gives me a wave of dismissal, "Want to play a round of cards while we wait? One of the girls should be fetching your sister anytime soon." Peeta gestures towards one of the parlor chairs, offering me a seat. His motions are perfectly refined: the way he pauses to allow me to walk before him, the way he always has an outstretched hand in my direction. It is the decorum of a gentleman, though the sentiment has no place in my world.

"I built this place a couple of years ago," he says, grabbing a pack of cards from an end table. "They were my father's plans. He had let me work on the design, given me real responsibility," there is a glint of sadness in his eyes, "and then he passed. _I imagine you know the feeling._ I wasn't much of an adult at the time but I figured this was a way to honor his memory. I added in some modern conveniences, adjusted the ambiance to better fit my style. It has become my favorite home." He shuffles through the packet of playing cards. "I hope to keep the place forever, raise my family here."

"Is that what you want?" I ask him, being more forward than usual, "A family?" Peeta was a man. He was wealthy and undeniably handsome; if he wished, he could undoubtedly find the perfect society girl to settle down with. A perky blonde girl, like Delly Cartwright or Glimmer Carnegie, one of those types they were always blabbing about in the papers.

"I suppose. _Ecarte?_" He asks, dealing me five cards.

I only nod in response. Ecarte was a fairly simple two-player game. You played with 32 cards and win by having the highest card in a suit. My father had taught me how to play with the weathered pack of Italian playing cards that he kept in the nightstand. When he was alive we used to play every night— all sorts of games, our own little ritual. It was the only thing he had the energy to do by the time he came home from the factory.

"If that is what you want, why haven't you married?" I prod.

"Oh, Katniss," the corners of his mouth turn up in a smile, "you sound like Effie or one of those society page writers. Everybody seems tied up about me being an 'aging' bachelor, as if I shall die alone because I did not get engaged the second I turned eighteen. Really, it is my brother's fault. Everybody has been jumping for me to marry since his wife became pregnant. I assure you, though, I do want a wife and children like most men—it just never seems to work out for me these days. I find myself busy most of the time, setting up my store or dealing with the railroads. I figure I need time to work those things out before I wed. Besides," he says with a laugh, "I am still working on getting a girl to agree to marry me."

_Getting _a girl to marry him? We both knew there were lines of perfectly suitable women and their mothers dying to be the next Mrs. Mellark. "I don't think you will have a problem with that," I tell him with a slight roll of my eyes.

"Oh, really?" he asks, grinning.

I blush, stuttering, "You, you know what I meant. You are Peeta Mellark, after all and—" I'm saved from further explanation when a gray-haired serving woman in a plain black gown peeks into the room, "Mr. Mellark," she says, "Miss Everdeen is ready, may I let her in?"

Peeta waves her in, and that's when Prim ushers in. Her dress is burgundy, a little more cropped than her everyday shifts, but far more mature in style. Longer and sleeker with a high collar. The neckline of the dress is covered in lace dotted with tiny pink roses. From her crisp white sash to the matching bow in her hair, Prim looks like one of those porcelain dolls. Her long blonde hair is shiny, coiled into perfect curls with the help of a hot iron. Her eyes are radiant, she's practically beaming. And there's the slightest hint of pink on her cheeks, standing out against her pale skin.

She's beautiful. Truly, truly, beautiful.

"Why Prim," Peeta says as he politely stands in her presence, welcoming her into the room, "you look like a princess." He takes her hand in his and spins her around, her dress twirling around as she falls back against him, so trusting. I remember her doing this with my father, how he would

'dance' with my giddy, seven-year-old sister, endlessly spinning her around the room to the point that the downstairs neighbors would pound the ceiling. And for a moment, I'm jealous. It is irrational, really, but I cannot help but be irked by the way she acts so naturally around him, as if she has known him her entire life. As if he were her brother. It doesn't help that they look perfect together, with their matching hair and fair eyes. Prim has blended well into his little world.

"Now, dinner should be ready," he says, allowing Prim to lean against him like a giddy child, "Join me in the dining room."

* * *

><p>The dining room is just as lavish as the rest of the house. There are beautiful marble fireplaces and gilded ceilings—everything a wealthy man needed to make a statement. A manservant dressed in finer clothes than any man from the Seam seats us at the table: Peeta at the head, of course, and Prim and I on either side of him. My sister makes small talk with Peeta, pestering him with silly questions. I'm too caught up in the whirl of food to tell her to hush. I've never seen so much of it in my life, and for three people? It's extravagant. I find myself wanting to try everything in my sight, but I know I will get sick if I do.<p>

Every dish is a piece of art. Decorative leaves and flowers, everything set in a way that makes it look like a masterpiece. It seems odd, to spend so much time arranging the food. In the Seam, we were lucky to have a hearty meal. Why waste time making _food_, of all things, look pretty?

The turkey itself is lined with some sort of leafy cabbage, and grapes and cranberries are arranged to look like matching flowers. And that isn't the only meat available. There are all sorts of fish and oysters, a plump roast goose, even a spiral ham set with a creamy sauce that I can't quite place. Along with the meat, there are all types of soups and dishes, a multitude of stuffing and a creamed onion soup that I take a particular liking to. There are a number of gelatin pies and a traditional plum pudding, which is far better than the scrappy one the charity homes brought to the Seam a few years back. My favorite part, though, is the lamb stew. It's warm and comforting, laced with dried plums and the memory of that meal he and I shared, so many nights ago last fall.

"Are you enjoying the stew, Katniss?" Peeta asks me with the slightest edge, breaking his conversation with Prim.

"Yes," I blush at the thought, "it is very good. Thank you for the meal." _Again,_ I think.

Prim nods. "I have never had anything so wonderful in my life. And the ham. And those, what did you call them, sweet potatoes? Everything was so delicious."

Peeta visibly softens at her words. "I assure you, there will be many wonderful dinners to come. You have enjoyed your evening here, I hope?"

"Oh yes!" Prim hastily agrees.

"Well, I am glad you are enjoying yourself and I hope it would not be too much of a trouble if I extended the situation for a few months. Your sister has agreed to accept my _invitation _to spend a bit of time in my home. Isn't that right, Katniss?"

"Yes," I state plainly, "we will be staying here for a while, Prim. Mr. Mellark has agreed to let us take residence."

Prim's eyes light up, and for a moment I wonder if she is going to burst from her seat. "Really? _We_ are going to get to stay in this pretty house?"

Peeta smiles at her, "Yes, my dear. And perhaps I could make good on that promise to bring you riding at my country house? How would you like that?"

My throat goes dry at his words, because as much as I had convinced myself of his intentions I was not partial to charity. The last thing I needed was for Prim to get attached. "Of course," I say, raising an eyebrow, "whatever you want, Mr. Mellark."

Peeta gives me an absent look, "No sense in formalities, _Miss Everdeen. _Call me Peeta."

And I don't get the chance to reply because three servants pull into the room, collecting plates and wheeling out golden carts lined with all sorts of pastries, powdered cakes, and sweet puddings.

"Look!" says Prim, eyeing a platter of tiny cakes adorned with miniature flowers, "Are those petit fours?"

"Yes," Peeta says, his voice lighter in response to Prim, "I suppose they are. You know _Katniss_," he says, pausing to make contact with me, "if you enjoy the cakes I could bring you to the bakery I have on Third. I believe it re-opens on the 28th, how does that sound?"

I pause, collecting my words, "I don't think it would be appropriate." I look into my lap, studying the brocade of my dress in order to avoid looking at him.

"Perhaps not," he says, his voice a little narrower than usual, "_We could always get lunch along the river._"

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: Thanks to Court for her expert beta-ing! Also, keep note of that last line. It is italicized for a reason.<strong>

**As always, you can follow me on tumblr at starveinsafety or everlarkfanfictionclub where I gif scenes from everlark fanfiction. **

**Let me know what you thought! Oh, and to the anon who asked yes the cover image is from The Paradise!**


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